Ships Will Carry You Home
by TackAttack
Summary: When Percy and Annabeth fell into Tartarus, they had no clue the horrors in store for them. Three horrible weeks later, they have found the open Doors of Death, miraculously both alive. After the Seven save the world, Percy and Annabeth attempt to heal.
1. A Will of Iron

**I do not own PJO.**

**Sweet Sacrifice**

**Chapter 1**

**A Will Of Iron**

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There's a light at the end of the tunnel. Finally, there's something more than the red mist, the skin-crawlingly moist air, thick with the stench of blood, the wet black craggy marble tunnels that make up Tartarus.

Your eyes strain to make out the daylight filtering through the smoggy air. You don't dare to move, even blink, desperately hoping that this isn't some hallucination again. That in fact, you've reached the end of this living hell.

Your fingers, caked with dirt and encrusted with blood, reach on their own accord for the sleeping girl beside you. You touch her face, then run your fingers down to her shoulder, where the blood has barely stopped flowing since the monster attack about an hour ago. Or was it an hour ago?

Time has become as syrupy as molasses, rushing past in great dollops, so that one moment fades into another, and there is really no sense of anything, anymore. There used to be, you remember. There used to be a panic gnawing at your insides, a hunger, a thirst, a longing for freedom. It gradually dissolved into nothing. Until now. For the first time in a long time, you feel hope light a fire in your gut.

You latch on to Annabeth's slightly less injured shoulder and shake, hard. She doesn't stir. A great fear swells in your chest, dropping the bottom out of your stomach. You shake her again, harder this time.

She coughs weakly, her breath a wheeze. She turns her head to the side, then opens her eyes, two sad grey orbs that blink confusedly out, all fight beaten out of them, replaced with exhaustion and pain.

"Annabeth," you whisper gravelly. "Annabeth, I found it."

She blinks.

"Get up!" You tug on her arm and she whimpers, squeezing her eyes shut tight. But you know she can't, know she'll die if you stay here much longer; know that your whole world depends on that faint echo of light in the distance.

You seize her hand. "We can't rest yet, Wise Girl. We're almost there." She coughs again, body convulsing with effort, turning her head to the side to let the dark red liquid spill over her cracked lips to the ground. You lift her head with your shaking hand. "Come on. This fight isn't over yet."

"Just let me be," she moans finally.

"I can't," you say, and your heart almost breaks. "We're almost out. We're almost finished with this. Do you remember the sun? How it used to sparkle on the water?"

She frowns slightly. "I think so," she says, vocal chords tripping over every other word. "It was warm. I'm so cold."

"Come on, Wise Girl. It's just a little more. A little more for me?" She shudders involuntarily. You wait, hoping that she can find just a little more inside her to bring you both home.

Her back sticks to the ground as she sits up, and she let out a little mewl of pain. You fold your knees beneath you and push up, grabbing onto the side of the cavern wall to get your balance.

When the intense dizziness has faded, you reach your hand down and catch hold of Annabeth, rocking back and almost losing your balance pulling her up.

Her knees threaten to buckle as she takes a step. You're not much better yourself, but you snake your hand around her waist to hold her up. She sinks into your arm. You can feel her ribs and hipbones poking at you.

Pain is clouding your mind, turning your consciousness into shards of glass turning in clear water, glinting in the sun. You grip Annabeth harder than you probably should, struggling to keep yourself grounded.

You take another step, and another. Your abused feet scream at you, the half-healed wounds reopening on the stony ground.

Annabeth's head rests gently on your shoulder.

Your body is screaming at you, _stop, stop, stop, _but you do your best to ignore it, ignore the way your knees shake at the strain of holding your weight, ignore the bloody footprints you're leaving behind you, ignore everything, and focus your eyes on the soft light in the distance.

As you continue on, you're practically carrying Annabeth. With each step, she's moaning softly, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. Her eyelashes flutter against your bare shoulder. You bow your head in exhaustion and plod on. As the time passes, you find yourself slipping away into numbness, where there is no pain, no _anything. _A place where you're barely aware of Annabeth wrapped around you, shivering horribly. Every time you notice and ground yourself back in reality, the pain hits you harder and harder, until you're gasping under the sheer weight of it. It's too much. You took on too much.

You stumble and barely catch yourself from splattering to pieces on the ground below. Annabeth's feet are dragging with each step. You can barely hear her breathing anymore.

"An-na-beth?" The name comes out crackly, like it's coming out of an old rabbit-eared TV.

She makes a small hissing noise in the back of her throat.

"S'not much further now," you lie. Your tongue feels like heavy cotton in your mouth. "We're almost there. Almost home."

She doesn't respond.

You look up; searching for the small glint of light, but it's not there. Instead, there's an square opening of light about the size of a book. Relief floods through your system.

"Wise Girl!" You're babbling now, your voice getting louder and louder with each word until it echoes around the cavern. "Look!"

She whimpers at your words, one filthy hand coming up to cover her ears. You stop; pull her head off your shoulder. She squeaks in pain. You turn her face to the light, watch her eyes for some sign, any sign that she sees it. She shakes her head free of your grip on her chin and whispers, "I can't see anything."

"What? Annabeth, it's right there."

"Are you sure you're not imagining things?" she asks tiredly.

You look at the light, then back at her. You're not imagining things, that much you're certain of.

"Yes, I'm sure," you say, quieter now.

You start moving forward again, dragging Annabeth with you. She goes without protest, but with every other step her knees give out and she's falling. You pull her arm around your shoulder to keep her upright and attempt to swallow the agonizing rub of her arm pulled taught over the half- healed scar on your left shoulder. You stumble forward, half-carrying Annabeth.

There's a certain desperateness that comes with seeing the exit, the end of this living torture. Your legs are shaking horribly and your vision is going in and out, but the Doors are getting closer and closer. You can't think straight anymore. Your heartbeat is thundering in your ears, blocking out all sounds. Your body is almost breaking under the overwhelming demands of your will and the hope that's sending adrenaline coursing through your veins.

Annabeth moans in pain beside you. You squeeze her hand. You're so close. You can make out the darkly ornate statues leading up to the Doors, black marble Greek sculptures of armed men. Their blank eyes glow with a evil red light. You shudder, hoisting Annabeth more firmly around your thin shoulders. You free your hand from Annabeth's and slip it into your tattered pocket. Your hand closes around the familiar weight of a heavy bronze pen. You poise your fingers over the cap, ready to spring into action even though you can barely move without blinding pain washing over you.

You pass the first two statues, unease making goose bumps erupt on what remains of your skin. You can feel their red eyes watching you.

You push on, further into enemy territory. Annabeth hangs limp on your right side.

Your dread becomes stronger with each passing second. Your instincts are screaming that this is _wrong_, that you should _not _be in the midst of these dark shadows, but what choice do you have, really?

Prickles erupt down your spine.

You're about halfway through the shadowy figures when a too-large hand clamps down on your shoulder, stopping you in your tracks. It's too cold and hard to possibly be human. Your stomach turns to ice with terror as you slowly turn around.

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**A.N. Tartarus and Sweet Sacrifice are not set in the same verse. Sorry if there was any confusion.**

**I hope you enjoyed!**


	2. Victory and Defeat

I do not own PJO.

**Chapter 2**

**Victory and Defeat**

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A statue is standing there, laser eyes staring at you. It doesn't relax its grip on your shoulder, and you grit your teeth and refuse to wince.

"Yes?" you ask.

The statue makes a mechanical whirring noise, then growls, "Perseus Jackson. The Son of Poseidon." It isn't a question. "I have orders to kill you."

"Do you now?" You stall for time. Annabeth hangs like a dead weight on your shoulder, and you don't have the strength or backup to fight these things for long.

"Yes." If a sculpture can sound amused, this one did.

Its other hand grabs for Annabeth, ripping her away from your shoulder and discarding her to the ground like a rag doll. You dive for her, a strangled noise bursting out of your throat, but a marble arm holds you back. The statue spins you away from her, and you nearly lose your balance.

"Let's get this over with," it snarls, and then a black iron sword is descending towards your throat. You roll at the last possible second. The sword buries itself deep into the rock. The sculpture mutters curses under its breath and tugs the sword out.

You're on your feet now, Riptide ready and glinting in the light of the opened Doors.

The first few exchanges are fast and furious, but you can't keep this pace for long. Already you can feel sweat trickling down the back of your neck, setting your scars on fire. Your muscles are screaming from the strain, and it must show on your face, because your opponent laughs cruelly. The sound grates on your sensitive eardrums.

Annabeth is laying in a crumpled heap on the tunnel floor, exactly where the statue tossed her. The sunlight from the outside casts dark shadows on her face, and for the first time in a long time you can actually see her clearly. You can see the cuts, bruises, scratches and scrapes in stark detail. You can make out the crusted blood on her skin, the dirt embedded so deep you can't imagine it will ever come out. You can see her hair, the curls tangled into dirty mats. It's not even the slightest hint of gold anymore.

You barely meet the backhand return. Your arm feels like jelly.

Your attacker's black lips curve upward in a smug smile. He knows he's won.

You grit your teeth. If you're going to die today, you're going to do so in style.

You aim your sword at his head and swing it with all the force you have. A good size chunk of neck falls to the ground but the statue will not be denied. It presses forward viciously, mouth bared in an ugly grimace. You're forced to retreat a few steps. Your foot slips on the slick ground and you lose your footing.

With a sickening thud, you hit the ground. You gasp at the wave of agony surging through your bloodstream, radiating from the points at which your body first made contact with the rock. You toss your head back in pain, gripping the stone hard with your fingers. Riptide digs into your palm.

The statue advances threateningly, sword raised. "What a pitiful excuse for a demigod. And you really defeated Lord Kronos?"

You don't answer. You're trying to get yourself together for another round. "It should be relatively easy to finish this," the cruel smile hisses.

It's standing directly over you. Its charcoal shadow casts your broken body into darkness. Your arms are shaking from the effort of holding your upper body in the air. You lower yourself to the slick surface.

From your vantage point, the wicked sharp point of the sword dangles precariously over your face. You close your eyes. To any good warrior, this is surrender, and you know the statue will think of it as such, but really it's you trusting your instincts to keep you alive, something you've always had remarkably good luck at.

"Giving up, Son of Poseidon?" The statue sneers.

Your back muscles tense, waiting, waiting, waiting, NOW! You call upon every last fiber of strength in your body and pour it into focus. A tremendous tidal wave of water smashes into your attacker, blowing him and all of his comrades off the edge of the Cliff of Tartarus and into the depths below. You can hear them shatter to smithereens against the rocks.

There's a horrible buzzing in your ears that shuts out all other sound. Your vision is doubling, tripling even. You fight your dizziness and force yourself to your hands and knees.

Your blown pupils search desperately for a small girl lying prone against the glassy black rock. When you've found her, you start crawling, painfully slow. The pain that shoots through you with each small movement is unbearable. You keep crawling, moaning in pain when your knees scrape the rock in exhaustion.

Blood stings your eyes. You blink it away.

When you've made it the few yards to her side, your trembling fingers jab at her neck, searching for her pulse point. It takes you precious minutes to find it, to find the fast weak beats of her heart pumping blood through her body.

When you've found it, you sigh in relief and collapse, your head resting on her chest, listening to the _thumpthumpthump _of her heart.

You're only a few yards away from the Doors of Death.

The sunlight hurts your eyes, so you keep them closed, watching the reddish-orange light filtering through your eyelids.

The pain is still there, but dulled, like you're not really a part of your body and therefore don't have to deal with it. You're floating away. You can feel yourself being tugged along a gentle yet persistent current.

Time is suspended; you're hanging in the small space between seconds, where nothing and everything matter all at once. You can't be bothered to care. You've used up your last reserves of strength. Your body is so heavy you doubt you could move if you tried. The only thing that you're absolutely certain of is the Daughter of Athena next to you.

You can hear the sounds of a battle taking place outside the Doors, inside the Doors, all around you, but it sounds like its taking place underwater. You're tucked enough away so as not to be a target. You doubt that anyone really even notices you.

Tongues of flame dance across your closed eyelids, wind buffets you, but all you can do is hold Annabeth closer.

The battle seems to last forever, but with it comes clarity rare in this eternal hell. The Argo ll has obviously arrived, and with it the other demigods in the prophecy of Seven. This is the final battle of the Prophecy. If the Leo, Jason, Piper, Hazel, and Frank don't see them, they'll assume that you and Annabeth died along the way and will be forced to close the Doors, with you and Annabeth still inside, which spells death in large block lettering splashed across your brain. Your only hope is to let them in some way know that you made it.

This new development kick starts your brain. Adrenaline sweeps your system, preparing you for one last push. You prop yourself up against the wall and scan desperately for something you can use to alert them you're here.

Then your blood turns cold. Piper's fighting a huge hell-hound, and she's losing the battle. There's no one around to help her but you. You stagger to your feet because she's your friend and you can't just very well _watch _her die.

You pull Riptide and stumble into the battle, the familiar wash of pain ebbing and then returning in full force. You manage to make it to the rear of the hell-hound without having to fight, which you count as a small victory.

The monster hasn't noticed you yet, being too focused on possible demigod prey. Riptide sinks into the monster's back and it explodes into gold dust with a startled yelp.

Piper turns, blinking dust and grime out of her eyes. A thin cut along her cheek oozes blood, and someone's ruffled her hair the wrong way. "Who-_Percy?" _She gasps. "Is that really you?"

She's at your side now, hands reaching out to hold you up.

The world is spinning, faster and faster. You nod weakly. Your knees buckle and you would have made a crash landing but Piper catches you and lowers you to the ground easily. She's obviously stunned.

"Where's Annabeth? She survived, didn't she? Please tell me she did."

The world is slipping in and out of focus. White spots dance in front of your eyes, your vision is narrowing. Piper's face is nothing more than blurry colors, tan and brown and red.

"She's…alive," you croak. "Where is she?"

Piper's voice sounds like it's coming from very far away, but it's relieved. You point vaguely to the direction in which Annabeth is.

"OK. Stay with me, Percy. Don't leave. Stay with me. We'll beat Gaia and then get you and Annabeth help." She shakes you, and you wince as you're injuries are disturbed. "Percy, talk to me, please."

Your vision goes black.

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	3. Missing

**I do not own PJO.**

**Chapter 3**

**Missing**

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Everything hurts, and not the dull ache you get after you've trained too hard the day before. It's a sharp pain, a shooting agony. It claws its ragged fingernails around your ribs when you take a breath, sends bolts of lightning up your body with every violent shiver that wracks your body.

Everything is coming back into focus. You're swaddled in some sort of padding, velvety and pillow-soft after the cold wet stones of Tartarus.

You moan softly, vocal chords protesting. Something rustles from close by you, then you feel a cool cloth on your forehead. It's heavenly against your super-heated skin. You moan again, and pry your sandy eyes open.

Hazel sits beside you, holding the rag on your forehead, which is quickly warming to an uncomfortable temperature.

She smiles sadly at you. "Hey."

She returns the cloth to the basin sitting beside you, wrings it out, and places in back onto your face. "You're burning up."

Her face is puffy and there are shiny wet tear tracks on her face. Something bad has happened. You reach a trembling hand up towards her face, ignoring the pain, and whisper your fingers over the swollen skin.

Hazel catches your hand and lays it back down next to you. "Rest, Percy. I'm fine." She attempts a smile, but her chin trembles.

You try to lift your hand again, but she covers it with one of hers and traps it to the mattress.

"Let me go call the others." She gets up off the stool and shuts the door behind her.

Panic is threatening at the edges of your mind, because as much as Hazel tries to pretend that everything's fine, it isn't.

Your mind immediately goes to Annabeth. The last time you saw her, she was laying in a crumpled heap in Tartarus, barely alive, the fight all but beaten out of her.

You've never seen her so out of it, so willing to give up. You literally had to drag her out of Tartarus because she couldn't go any farther. Shivers crawl up your spine when you realize how close you were to not making it out, how close you were to giving in, to letting Gaia win.

The door opens slowly and your friends enter cautiously. They all wear fresh marks from the recent battle. Piper is on makeshift crutches, Jason is missing a finger, the side of Frank's face is covered in a plaster of white gauze. They all look exhausted, and the trauma of the last month or so is written in every crevice of their faces, the scars and the dirt and the greasy hair and the dark quiet nightmares that echo in their eyes.

Piper looks the most relieved of them all to see you awake. She sits down on the stool beside you and re-wets the cloth on your forehead.

"We thought you weren't going to make it," she says softly.

Her eyes are wet as well, kaleidoscope orbs swimming in tears. She blinks fast to clear them, but one slips down and lands on her lap. She winces as the salt burns her scrapes.

Your breath grates painfully against your throat, but you _have_ to if Annabeth is all right, if she's alive, if this long hard journey wasn't all for nothing. "Annabeth?" You ask hoarsely, wincing.

She touches your face. "Annabeth's fine. Well, she's a little banged up, but OK. She's in her room. Coach Hedge is with her; she hasn't woken up yet."

You breathe in sweet relief, sinking back into the pillows, relaxing into the violent shudders that rack your body, heating your body to dangerous temperatures, sending bolts of agony up your spine.

W You must show some sign of discomfort, or more than you did before, because Piper gently says, "We can't give you any ambrosia. Your fever is too high; you'll go up in flames."

You nod slowly, wincing as the muscles in your neck scream their displeasure.

She brushes your hair off your forehead absentmindedly; eyebrows furrowed and eyes dark with memories. Her fingers have gone completely rigid. You wince as she suddenly twists her hands into your sweaty locks, her face contorting with pain.

Jason bends stiffly to her level and tips her head to look him directly in the eyes. His bandaged left hand rests on her shoulder.

"Pipes? Are you with us?"

She starts. Her face goes blank and her eyes open wide. Jason pulls her thin shaking body into a hug.

She clings to him, knuckles white on his threadbare shirt. A trembling sob escapes her.

Jason hushes her, face buried in her choppy hair. He's shaking himself. "It's all right, you're all right," he soothes, over and over and over. It takes a while to calm Piper down, to reassure her that everything's okay now, that it's over, that Gaia is gone, that she's safe.

She finally emerges from Jason's arms, wiping at her red-rimmed eyes and chalky face. "Sorry, sorry, sorry, I'm so so sorry," she's mumbling.

You summon the strength to speak. "Don't be."

Piper and the others look at you in surprise.

"Those things you see, they never go away. Ever. They change you. You shouldn't ever feel ashamed of it. You kind of just have to heal, but it never _really _heals, and you learn to live with it."

They look startled at the philosophical speech you have just given.

You close your eyes, remembering the weeks after the fall of Kronos, the moments when you'd close your eyes and see Michael falling with the bridge into the water, see the Leneus dissolve into a sapling, watch Thalia get crushed by the giant statue, listen to Luke's last rasping breaths, and, worst of all, relive Annabeth taking the knife for you.

You remember the night at your mom's house when you woke up in sweat and vomit and shaking with terror from the nightmares. You remember Annabeth climbing into bed with you, telling you that in a while, it'll all get easier, and in the meantime, that you have each other to hold on to when the memories threaten. You say heavily, "Annabeth told me. After the first war, when it all got to be a bit much, she would remind me."

Piper nods, clutching at herself tighter.

Frank and Jason share a look over everyone's else's heads, a look that is not lost on you. Frank clears his throat uncomfortably and says, "Um, Percy, there's something else you should know. About the prophecy."

Your mind flashes to the Second Great Prophecy. 'An oath to keep with a final breath.'"

And then you realize that in your fevered mind, you've forgotten that someone from the Seven is missing. Leo, the fire boy, is nowhere in sight.

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	4. Mind Over Matter

I do not own PJO.

**CHAPTER 4**

**Mind Over Matter**

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Your mind spins with grief and shock at your realization. Leo, the crazy kid with the tool belt and the wild hair, who always had a smile, is gone. Another brave, good kid who died way too young as a result of something he couldn't even control; his lineage.

Bile rises in the back of your throat.

You hardly even knew the kid, but you kind of felt a responsibility toward some of the younger, less experienced demigods on the ship, to keep them safe. You'd known that they were chosen for a reason, but you, Annabeth, and Jason had tried to prepare them for the war that was inevitable, to warn them that nothing would be the same after everything was said and done, to tell them that the horror and the shock of it all never goes away, that the sorrow remains with you forever. You guess that nothing in the world would prepare you for having a loved one torn from your midst forever.

Frank must not have noticed the stricken look you're sure you're sporting, because he goes on, his voice getting heavier with each word.

"Um, Nico died helping us get to the Doors."

He's looking at you sadly, his thick eyebrows drawn in, bottom lip quivering slightly.

A fat pearly tear slides down Hazel's face. She lets out a small sob that breaks at the end, and buries herself in Frank's arms. He rubs her back in small circles and mumbles something in her ear.

You're reeling from the shock. Nico? The small, skinny kid with the dark aura and darker powers?

You remember him as a little kid, before Bianca died and he became a different person. Shorn black hair, tanned bronze skin, a blinding, innocent smile. Then the year of complete hatred, down in the Labyrinth. His hair longer, reaching almost to his shoulders, matted with dirt. Paler skin, a scowl, a long dark sword, torn clothes.

Finally, recently, after the war. Death white skin, floppy black hair, dark clothes. Still small and skinny, but with a certain deadliness to him too, a dangerous edge, just like his father.

He'd grown up. Way too fast, way too violently, but he'd grown up.

You take a shuddering breath and nod, feeling tears prickle at the backs of your eyes.

Jason gives your shoulder a light squeeze, and you wince. "Sorry," he says hurriedly.

You shake your head, your eyes shut to keep the tears in, burning your eyes. "It's okay," you say gruffly. "I'm okay."

You are not okay. This is not what okay feels like. You have never felt less okay in your life. Annabeth is badly injured and unconscious and you haven't even been able to see her yet. Nico is dead. You hurt all over with a throbbing that sends bolts of agony up your spine.

You're completely useless. You didn't save Nico. You didn't help defeat Gaia. You couldn't even manage to keep Annabeth safe.

You turn your face into the blissfully cool pillow, away from the pity, away from the grief-stricken faces, away from the death grip of reality.

You take a deep breath and attempt to focus. "Annabeth," you say quietly. "I need to see Annabeth."

Silence.

"I need to see Annabeth," you say more urgently.

There's a throbbing ache in your gut from missing her, desperately wishing and hoping for her to be okay.

Jason speaks first. "I don't know if you can," he says slowly, like he's talking to a scared dog backed in a corner. "You haven't healed yet and Annabeth is all the way down the hall."

"You should have thought of that before you put me in here then," you say. "I'm going to see Annabeth."

"Percy," Hazel says. "You're only going to hurt yourself more. The best thing you can do right now is to heal for at least another day and maybe by that time Annabeth will be awake. Right now, if you go, she'll still be unconscious."

They don't get it. They still don't get the fact that your mind and body are a snake with two heads; that one doesn't heal without the other. You could lay in this bed forever and not get any better if you don't see Annabeth.

You shake your head in frustration. "I don't care; I have to see Annabeth." "Percy." Jason's pinching the bridge of his nose, like you're giving him a headache and he really doesn't want to deal with your stubbornness but he feels responsible for you. "You can't go see Annabeth right now. You're not healed enough yet. You can't even walk."

This royally ticks you off. Jason's not responsible for you; never has been. You are completely and totally responsible for your own decisions. He doesn't need to get all annoyed teacher on you.

You steel yourself for the agony that's sure to come. You set your teeth and pull back the covers with your free hand, exposing your fevered body to the cool breeze coming through the window.

Jason's hands are over yours in less than half a second. "What do you think you're doing?" he asks, exasperated. "We told you, you can't."

You stare him down. "Are you under the impression that you're in charge of me or something?" you ask. "Because if you are, I'm afraid you're mistaken." You snatch your hands from underneath his and slide your legs out slowly, biting back a wince as the blood rushes into your abused feet.

Jason looks like you slapped him across the face, you note with satisfaction. Everyone else in the room is absolutely silent.

You meet every set of eyes, lifting your chin into the air. "I'm going to see Annabeth," you announce. "Does anybody else want to try to stop me?"

Utter quiet.

You push yourself off the side of the bed and gingerly boost yourself to your feet. Waves of pain flash and sparkle across your brain, turning your vision red and white for a few seconds before subsiding somewhat, so you can see but not think.

The room is spinning in lazy circles, almost knocking you off your feet, but you manage to stay upright. You blink a few times to shake off the dizzy spell, then take a step. Another. Another.

Annabeth's name is pounding through your veins, and it's only through that and the knowledge that if you could make it through Tartarus alive, you could do almost anything that has you turning the brass knob and stepping out into the hall, the others following silently behind.

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**This chapter was equivalent to pulling teeth, so I sure hope you enjoyed.**

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	5. Wrong

I do not own PJO.

**CHAPTER 5**

**Wrong**

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It's incredible what the body can accomplish when it has a purpose, a reason for pushing beyond the limits. Even so, everything has a limit, and you're pretty sure that you're rapidly approaching yours. By the thin sheen of sweat layering your body, the way your heart is thundering out of your chest way too fast to be healthy, the throbbing ache that pools around your joints almost unbearably, attacking the rest of you in lighting strikes of agony with each movement you make, your body is agreeing.

You've pushed beyond practically every barrier you thought you could possibly have and further, so far that your abused muscles quake at the thought. It's oddly liberating in a strange sense.

Jason brushes past you, nearly knocking you off your precarious balance. He acts like you aren't there.

"I'm going to get Leo," he calls over his shoulder. "He's been at the wheel way too long and I'm starting to worry about him."

He disappears up the stairs.

You glower at his rapidly retreating back, then continue on your torturous journey. One foot in front of the other in front of the other. A drop of sweat slides down your face.

You lean your shoulders against the wall and keep walking, keep moving, because if you stop you'll never find the strength to start again.

Everything _burns; _your body is burning up. Fire licks at your insides. You fight it, like you fight everything else, push it back, lock it up, and attempt to turn a deaf ear to the little voice inside you head that reminds you that it only makes everything worse in the long run.

Your hands shake. Your knees wobble, but with sheer force of will, you hold yourself up and keep plodding along. A stretch of hallway has never seemed so long.

Finally, after what seems like forever, your sweaty fingers fumble with the brass doorknob to Annabeth's room. You bang your head against the oak wood door a few times while your uncoordinated hands fail to twist the knob.

And suddenly, finally, amazingly, you're in.

You hobble a few steps into the cool, dimly lit room. Your vision is blurred with sweat and pain.

The door shuts behind you with a soft click, startling you out of your thoughts.

You blink to clear your eyes, which doesn't really help much, then start moving slowly towards the chair next to the bed heaped high with downy white comforters, at least two.

You can just make out a glimmer of blonde from the sheets, and it comforts you somewhat. You can hear her breathing, each breath quiet, short, and sharp, ending in a small snort.

A small smile brushes across your face. Relief is drowning you in blissful waves. She's alive. She's safe. You didn't fail after all. Annabeth is here with you. You stumble towards the empty chair. Your head feels like it's been screwed on backwards and overwhelming giddiness is making it hard to focus on walking. You make it to the chair by some work of the gods.

Desperate need is overtaking your happiness, a need to see more of her, to drink her in. You lean back against the wooden back of the chair, which was obviously not built for comfort, then blink down at the beautiful girl under the blankets.

No one has washed her hair, so it's caked with dirt and blood, tangled into horrible knots against the pillow. You can barely make out any gold, curls instead choosing a brownish orangey. There's a white bandage that wraps around her forehead. Her eyelashes fan out across her pale scratched cheekbones. Her lips are bitten and chapped, too red. A bony hand peeks above the covers, blending in with the blankets perfectly. You can see blue veins beneath her skin.

In other words, she's never been more perfect.

You can't resist not touching her for one more moment; you feather your fingers over her face, softly touching each angry red scratch. You brush your thumb over her lips, wondering at the soft puffs of breath that escape with each breath.

You carefully take her hand in yours, holding it as if it's made of sand. It's warm and callused and hard and _Annabeth's_. You press a kiss to your entwined knuckles, a salty tear splashing on your fingers.

You can see the silhouette of her body through the thick sheets and it's too small, too bony, too _fragile _to be Annabeth, even though you know the comforter bulks it up.

She's like a little bird, a sleeping angel and you've never seen anyone look more beautiful in your entire life. You touch her lips again, wanting to feel her breath warming your skin. Wanting to make sure she's still with you. She's so emaciated it looks like she might just disappear.

Your pain is still there, throbbing dully beneath the surface, but right now nothing matters except Annabeth.

On an impulse, you lean forward and gently connect your lips together. You kiss her softly, gently, marveling in how her lips fit perfectly into yours. You only pull back when your back starts protesting.

Then you're content to just sit and watch her sleep.

She's quiet for a few more minutes, but then she starts to stir weakly, a kitten whimper coming from her throat. You hush her, hold her hand as she starts to wake up.

Washes of excitement and happiness float through your veins as you wait for her. You'll always wait for her.

After what feels like forever, you catch a glimpse of storm grey eyes that can cut diamonds or heal hearts. Right now though, they're confused and innocent doe eyes.

A sense of dread settles deep in your chest. Something is not right. Something is dreadfully, terribly, irreparably wrong. Your eyes drift up and settle on the white sterile bandage across her forehead.

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	6. I'll Wait For You

**I do not own PJO.**

**CHAPTER 6**

**I'll Wait For You **

* * *

She just looks up at you, her grey eyes hopelessly lost. A crease appears between her eyebrows as she stares up at you with complete confusion.

Dread weighs you down as you say softly, "Hey Annabeth."

Your hand reaches up to gently trace a healing scratch on her cheek. She flinches away from you and you drop your hand from her face as if you've been burned.

She clears her throat several times before she can get speak, albeit thickly. It's almost funny how three words can shatter a heart into a million glass shards. "Who are you?" she asks softly. There's no trace of a joke in her voice, or her face. She's completely serious.

You've never been one for subtleties, always missed everything but the obvious, always blurted out what you wanted to say without giving much (or any) thought to the consequences of your actions until you couldn't take them back, so you say the first thing that comes into your head as a reply, because this can't be real, she must be bluffing, she _has _to remember you, she has to.

"What the Hades are you on about?" you say sharply.

She huffs a breath, then creaks out, "I asked you who you were. Is it too much of a bother to let me know your name? And what is this place anyway? Where's Chiron?"

You sit there in dumbfounded silence. Your mind is reeling, denying, anything to _get away_ from this moment. Your hand is still holding hers, as you realize with a sting of hurt when she shakes it off.

"Why are you holding my hand?" she demands. "Who are you and where am I!?"

Your eyes are welling up and there's a baseball in your throat. Your emotional pain far outstrips any physical pain you could possibly have. It drums in your skull and numbs your body. Your voice wavers as you answer her, because she's Annabeth and she means everything to you and more, and she _doesn't remember you_, doesn't remember anything about you, doesn't remember what you and her had together.

"I'm Percy," you tell her, and your heart breaks again, because she knows, knew, more about you than you did, and here you are introducing yourself. "Percy Jackson."

"And where am I?" she asks impatiently.

"You're in the Argo ll," you say weakly.

"Which is?"

She doesn't know. She legitimately doesn't remember. "It's a flying ship. Leo built it."

She winces, grey eyes clouded with pain and confusion. Pride keeps her from crying out, but if the way her lips quiver is any indication, she wants to.

By instinct, you reach out and brush a stray golden curl out of her face, hushing her gently. You've forgotten that's she's forgotten.

She jerks instantly. You jump back, startled into reality.

She just sighs tiredly and turns her face away from you, seemingly realizing that she's not going to get anything more out of you. As for you, all the bones in your body seem to have deserted you and you sink against the hard chair, head tilted up.

Your mind is spinning, clouded with sadness and overflowing with pain. You close your eyes to fight the sting of tears and are confronted with image after image of Annabeth at her full glory, before and after she became yours.

Hair that shone like spun gold in the New York sun. Grey eyes that sparkled and danced, glowing with a wild fire. Bronze knife that glinted dangerously. Sweat and ripped clothes, injuries and uncertainty, rogue gods and goddesses, quest after quest after quest where the odds were almost nil and still you returned alive.

You fight to keep your breathing even. She doesn't need to know how much it hurts. It's like a physical wound, a knife that has lodged itself between your ribs and refuses to let go. It constricts your chest and chokes your windpipe.

You fight for breath. You put your head in your hands and attempt to stop panicking.

She's still here. She's still alive. It isn't too late. You still have another chance. That doesn't make it right or fair, because it isn't, it's not fair that this has happened, in fact, it's horribly unfair, but there is a glimmer of hope.

You might fall. This might not work out. She could choose someone else, move on and not even look twice at you, the person who saved her time and time again and loved her and whose fingers fit perfectly into hers. If that happened, you would fall and break and shatter and _die_, because you can't not live with her presence at your side. But as long as there's a chance, no matter how slim, you have to go for it with everything you have.

You take a long shuddery breath and prepare your heart to be shattered, then place your hopes and dreams and everything you are on the broken girl in the bed in front of you. And you start to speak.

"Um, Annabeth," you ask timidly.

She turns her head to face you and opens her eyes. The dull vacant grey stares hopelessly at you.

"What's the last thing you remember?" you ask. You're not expecting an answer, so you're surprised when she answers you, voice flat and toneless.

"I was in the Big House with Chiron. I was asking him if I could go on the quest that was leaving tomorrow. He told me I couldn't, that I has to wait for a child of the Big Three."

"How old are you?"

She furrows her eyebrows. "What kind of a question is that? I'm twelve, obviously. Can you just tell me where I am, please?"

You gulp. How are you supposed to answer her?

"You're not going to believe me," you say.

"I'll believe just about anything right now, to be honest."

And so you do. You talk until your throat is swollen, raw, and scratchy. With every word you speak, you can practically see her mental red flags going up, so when you finish, you're not surprised to hear her say, "I don't believe you," almost immediately after silence has befallen the room.

"I didn't think you would," you say heavily.

She shakes her head. Her eyes are frantic and lost.

"Just-go," she says. "Please-just leave me alone."

It takes too much effort to stand up, but you manage and begin the long trek back to your room.

"Bye," you say. "I'll see you in a bit."

She doesn't answer.

Your hand fumbles on the doorknob and suddenly you're out in the hallway, facing Piper and Hazel, who both look worried.

"What happened?" Piper asks. "We heard voices."

Hazel reaches out and takes hold of your battered wrist, keeping you grounded, holding you steady.

You take a few deep breaths and will your voice to not betray you. It does anyway. Your voice wavers and cracks as you answer her. "She doesn't remember. Not any of it."

You drop your eyes to the floor and force back the painful prickling of tears. You feel arms around you and you don't resist them, instead sinking gratefully into their combined warmth and protection. When you break apart, tears are running down Piper's face.

"Let's get you back to your room," Hazel says quietly, and you notice a telltale shiver in her voice. She's staying strong for you. You think vaguely that you must look like a mess, but then you are a mess.

They guide you back down the hall to your room and you don't protest. Every part of your body aches. Your limbs are lead weights. You limp along as best you can, and they don't say anything about the painfully slow pace, which you are grateful for.

They deposit you in your room, tuck you into bed and leave with whispered goodbyes, leaving the small lantern flickering, casting strange shapes along the walls.

You shift onto your side and stare at the red, orange, and gold shapes flitting across the wall. Tear tracks run down your cheeks, staining the cushion. A soaking wet spot the size of your outstretched hand has collected on the pillow by the time your exhausted mind has found a restless sleep.

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	7. The Talk

**I do not own PJO**

**CHAPTER 7**

**The Talk**

* * *

It's been a week and you haven't gone back. You've tried. Every day you've stood in front of Annabeth's door, your hand on the doorknob, but you haven't gone in. You haven't been able to bear seeing her and her not recognizing you. It's a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach, a gnawing feeling that you carry around with you every where you go.

You've been getting better, marginally improving every day. The pain isn't so bad now; you've healed enough where you can almost handle it.

You're like a ship without an anchor, drifting in the ocean.

They're starting to worry about you, you can tell, by the concerned looks they shoot you when they think you're not looking. It's justified concern; aside from dragging yourself down the hallway to stand in front of Annabeth's door, you've shut yourself in your room, pulling the comforter up to your chin and staring blankly at the wall.

Sometimes the sobs are so intense they threaten to choke you and the tears rivulet down your face. Sometimes you don't even know you're crying until you raise a hand to your face and feel the drying streaks of salty anguish.

You haven't spoken since you've seen Annabeth. There hasn't been any need to. Nothing else is of any importance than what you're feeling. The realization of what has transpired, what Tartarus has taken from you vibrates and your bones, fills your lungs, and rushes through your body.

The weight of it threatens to crush you.

You sigh heavily and stare at the wall for an immeasurable amount of time. The sun is making its descent, casting golden light over your face and setting your room into blazing flame when Jason opens the door, sits down on the stool, and runs his fingers through his straw hair. You ignore him. It takes him a while to speak.

"Percy?" His voice is timid.

You wait a moment, then turn your head and look at him. He clears his throat awkwardly.

"I'm sorry about snapping at you."

You nod and go back to staring out the window, watching the clouds soar past, bathed in rich purple, pink, and gold.

Jason sighs. "And I'm sorry about Annabeth. I know how hard this must be for you."

You take a deep shuddery breath. Here, sitting in bed with Jason, immersed in setting sunlight, you feel safer than you have for a long, long time. And you feel yourself speak, because Jason _is _probably the person who knows the most about this.

"I-just. We did _everything _together, Jason. Everything. She knew more about me than I did. She always had my back. We had so many shared memories. We were best friends from twelve, for the gods sakes! And she doesn't remember _anything-" _You swallow and almost choke on your next words. "She loved me, and now she doesn't, and I don't know if I can live with that."

The two of you are silent for a long time.

Then Jason speaks. "We've been trying to talk to her, you know. She's very confused, but we've done our best to get her to believe us. She's starting to open up a little to the girls." He pauses. "I know it's really hard right now. But you need to go see her. She's been asking about you." He lets this information sink in. "You still have a chance at this, mate."

You turn back to the window.

"Yeah." You clear your throat to get rid of the rustiness. "Yeah, I will."

He laughs humorlessly. "Demigods have literally the worst luck ever. Everything that can go wrong, does go wrong, it seems like."

You press the back of your hand into your forehead and try to pull yourself together.

"I learned that a long time ago," you say, and he squeezes your shoulder.

"I know," he answers quietly.

You stare at your hands.

The stool squeaks as Jason stands. "I better go," he says.

"Bye," you say.

The door shuts behind him with a soft click, leaving you with your thoughts. Jason's visit has breathed a new life into you, it seems like.

Annabeth has been asking about you. You need to go see her.

You blow a breath sharply, strengthen your resolve, and swing your legs out of bed. The pain is still there, hiding beneath the surface, but it's been reduced to a dull throb.

Your bare feet state their displeasure of the cool wooden floor as you pad to the door and slip outside, into the long open hallway.

You retrace your familiar path to Annabeth's door, the death march. You square up to the door, the one the Aphrodite cabin painted of a gray owl with piercing eyes sitting on a tree branch outlined in the glowing setting sun.

You bow your head.

You almost turn around and head back to your bed, your safe haven. Only the thought of Annabeth, confused and alone and needing someone who can tell her the truth, the full truth, has you turning the brass knob and stepping inside.

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	8. A Shred Of Hope

**I do not own PJO.**

**Chapter 8**

**A Shred Of Hope**

She's sitting on the end of her bed. The glow of the sun highlights the circles under her eyes, the scars and bruises that cascade across her face, the weariness that surrounds her.

She's looking at herself in the small mirror across from her. Her hands tugs at her mane of matted hair, touches her face, her shoulder where you know the scar from the Titan War lies.

Her eyes are lost and hopeless.

She doesn't notice you standing frozen in the doorway. As you watch, a tear slips down her face and she furiously wipes away.

"I just want to go home-" she whispers. Her voice is broken. "Why can't I go home?"

In that moment, your heart twists in your chest for her, and for yourself, but mostly for her, because what kind of luck does she have, really?

You clear your throat softly, alerting her to the fact that you're here. She looks up at you, startled.

Her hands furiously scrub at her red rimmed, puffy eyes before looking away again, blinking fast.

You address her cautiously. "Annabeth, can I come in? If you don't want me to I won't," you back up hurriedly, "but I'd love to talk to you."

It takes a moment of deliberation, but she nods almost imperceptibly, still keeping her face turned from you.

You pad into the room and take the armchair farthest away from the bed. You'd like nothing more than to sit beside her, wrap your arms around her small form, and hold her tight, but you know all too painfully that she's not ready for that in the slightest.

You fold your hands in your lap and squeeze until finger sized marks blossom white, then red on your skin.

She combs the hair away from her face and attempts to subtly pull herself together. You bow your head to your lap and wait for her.

Finally, after what feels like a long time in the deathly silent room, she speaks. Her voice is rough and nasally from crying.

"Is it true?" she asks softly.

You nod gently. "Yes."

"All of it?" she asks in a small voice. You can practically see her slipping back into her shells like she's been burned, mentally berating herself for asking what she thinks is a stupid question, even though she just genuinely needs some reassurance.

You nod again. "Yes. It is."

"Oh." It comes out as a small puff of surprised air.

You keep going, bravely. "I know you're not ready right now. Maybe not ever again. I just-I want you to know that I'm here for you if you need me, and please don't ever feel like anything is a stupid question to ask me, because there's no such thing as a stupid question."

She's silent for a minute.

"They told me that you're son of Poseidon."

"Yes, I am," you say.

"Athena and Poseidon have always been rivals," she goes on, "so I don't see how you and me worked out, if what you're saying is true."

You have to take a minute to think on that question before you answer.

"I don't know how it worked out," you say finally. "I just know that it did." She takes a moment to digest this.

"I'm still not sure that I believe you," she says. "About this whole thing, I mean. But it's starting to seem a little more possible."

"It's true," you say, rocking forward, your hands on your knees. "When we get back to Camp Half-Blood, you'll see."

Her face lights up like a Christmas tree. The relief is palpable in her voice as she says, "we're going back?"

You smile and nod, but then a thought hits you. "Wait, haven't the others told you that already?"

She frowns. "Maybe. I don't remember."

Silence befalls the room, thick and sticky. She lays back against the top of the blanket and stares at the wood ceiling. You cross your legs and lean back against the chair, watching her through your lashes.

A thought strikes you suddenly. "Annabeth?"

She turns her head slightly, letting you know she's listening.

"No offense, but your hair is a mess." You blurt, then mentally kick yourself. "Thanks," she says coldly.

You stumble over yourself backtracking. "No! I only meant, like, would you let me try to brush it out?"

She's silent for so long you start to think she didn't hear you, or it shunning you for what you said before, which actually would be pretty standard for Annabeth. Then she reaches across from her, and opens a drawer on her nightstand. She winces in pain but keeps going until she can reach her hand inside and pull out a small brush, which she lobs to you across the room.

You catch it, startled.

She sits up and slides her legs off the bed.

"Do your worst," she says. "I doubt you'll make much difference, but."

You smile broadly. "Okay. Thanks Annabeth."

You scramble up onto the bed and sit cross-legged behind her. Then you attack her tangled mass of hair.

It's tedious work. You're trying so hard to avoid hurting her, but every once in a while you hit a rough patch and she winces and sucks in her breath. You fall over yourself apologizing until she says, "It's fine. Stop apologizing and just get on with it. It's getting on my nerves."

You stop after that and work in silence.

The sun has sunk below the horizon by the time you're halfway done, and Annabeth wordlessly flicks the light on.

The clock reads later and later and by this point you're procrastinating, trying to keep this moment going for as long as you can, because this moment is as close to normal as you can remember it being for a long long time. You let the warmth of being with Annabeth wrap you in a happy glow and for this moment, try to forget the stark grey reality looming closer and closer.

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	9. Nightmare

**I do not own PJO.**

**CHAPTER 9**

**Nightmare**

* * *

By the time you've finished, the clock reads eleven and Annabeth is starting to get impatient. You know you can't string it out any longer, so you sigh internally, run the brush through her hair, which has frizzed, and hand it back to her over her shoulder.

"All done," you say heavily.

She takes the brush and puts it back in her nightstand, then stands up with you, taking a look at herself in the mirror and frowning.

"I really need to take a shower," she says. "Look at this."

She gestures to her hair.

You nod.

"I have some conditioner and stuff," you say. "I'll go get it."

She nods.

You open her door and walk down the hallway to the door with the ocean at sunset. You step inside, grab your stuff and duck into Annabeth's room.

"Here you go," you say. "The shower is down the hall, third door to the right. She nods, takes the soap wordlessly, and slips past you out the door. You watch her retreating back, the way her clothes hang off her too thin frame.

You slide down the wall and rest your chin on your knees, watching the grandfather clock in the hallway keep time.

You're lulled into a hypnotic peace watching the heavy brass weight swing back and forth inside the polished mahogany.

You need to see Annabeth one last time, need to reassure yourself that she's here and alive and _real_, before you separate yourself from her for the night. Your lids flutter, and you struggle to keep them open. The next thing you know, a small hand is on your shoulder, shaking you gently.

You open your eyes blearily and look up at the small girl with her golden hair up in a towel and her skin pink and rubbed raw from the shower.

Her hands stick out of her pajamas. You can tell all too painfully just how thin her wrists are.

She looks down at you. "I came back and you were sleeping her in the hallway," she explains. "I wasn't going to wake you up, but I figured that it must be uncomfortable."

You rub the back of you neck, which has started to cramp, and smile up at Annabeth.

"Thanks," you say gratefully.

She manages a small smile. "You're welcome."

She sticks out a hand to help you up, and you take it, using any excuse to get close to her, but even though you've lost a lot of weight as well, she's not strong enough to pull you up yet. You barely are yourself, and it's your body.

It takes a few minutes to get up, with both of you combined.

Your joints protest like an old man's.

She glances at the clock and looks sheepish.

"It's getting late," she says. Her hand reaches up and picks at the stray end of the towel. "We should both be sleeping by now."

You look. Midnight.

"Yeah," you say. "It is late. I better be off to bed."

She nods.

You turn. "Bye," you say, and lift your hand up in a small farewell.

"Bye," she says, and watches you leave, a skinny girl swallowed up her clothes, barefoot in a long dark hallway lit only with sconces every few feet.

You're not much better.

You pad down the hallway and open your door. Every step is hard to take because it's a step farther away from Annabeth.

You don't hear her door shut until you've disappeared into your dark empty door.

You shut the door and slide the lock, then go over to the window and lock that too. You scan the room for every possible escape route and entry point for monsters.

It takes you a good half hour before you feel even remotely comfortable. You cast one last careful look around the small cabin room, then shed your shirt and pull on a pair of sweatpants.

You wrap your fingers around Riptide, your trusty weapon that has served you well, and crawl into bed.

You pull the covers up to your chin and leave the light on, but you know from the first five minutes that it's no use.

Every rustle has you wide awake, adrenaline pumping, bolt upright in bed with your hand halfway to the cap of your bronze pen. Every shadow looks like a monster could come crawling out and attack you.

This is the first night where you've been fully in the real world, and not drowned in grief or sorrow or pain, and you hadn't realized just how much terror that can bring.

Your heartbeat thuds in your chest. Your hands seize the blanket in a vice grip. Your skin is slick with sweat.

Your mind is on overload. With each sound, a new painfully scary memory from Tartarus flits through your head, chasing each other on repeat through your brain. You groan and put your head in your hands, digging into your temples to try and stop the flood.

You give up, sigh, and abandon all pretenses of sleeping. You get out of bed and stumble over to the chair, where you slouch down and roll Riptide through your fingers.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Your hair is long and not quite as matted as Annabeth's was, but close. Your skin is parchment white and you can see your veins. Your scars are an angry healing red. Your eyes are sunken in with malnourishment and purple shadows underline them.

You shudder and look away. Your stomach is rolling and you feel nauseous. You pull your knees up to your chest but it doesn't work.

The room suddenly feels stuffy and way too small. You have to get out. Claustrophobia gnaws at the already frayed edges of your mind. In a sudden frenzy, you pull a sweatshirt over your puzzle piece skin and flee the room, only stopping for breath when you've reached the end of the hallway.

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	10. Death

**I do not own PJO.**

**CHAPTER 9**

**Death**

* * *

You duck into the living room of the Argo ll.

It's dark except for the tapestries of Camp Half-Blood glowing with the light of the full moon. A figure is illuminated in the silver glow, stalking up the hill. Clarisse. You watch her as she patrols the boundaries, watching for potential threats.

The whites of her eyes glisten demonically as she approaches. Her gloved hand is tight around the sword hilt. She's limping heavily. She looks exhausted, the light casting canyons into her gaunt face.

She cautiously checks the surrounding area for threats, then sits heavily on an old moldy tree stump.

You're intrigued, because this is all very out of character for Clarisse.

She puts her head in her hands, a defeated sigh escaping her. After a few minutes, she raises her head and stares straight ahead without really seeing anything at all.

Her eyes are bloodshot. As you watch, they overflow. Even after going through all the trouble to get herself alone and completely undisturbed, she still scrubs at her eyes like they have done her some great personal wrong.

"I'm so sick of this." She whispers, her voice rough and gravelly. "I can't do this much longer."

She winces, her hands going to her injured leg, hastily wrapped in dirty gauze bandages.

"I hate you," she says. "I don't care that you're my dad. I hate you so much, for making me do this. For making us do this. You have no right to do this to us. We're not your disposable slaves."

Her voice has risen to a hateful growl, shaking with rage. The sky crackles with lightning. It starts to rain, suddenly, sheets of wetness soaking her.

She rockets to her feet, wobbling on her good leg and slightly off-balance. "DO YOU HEAR ME!?"

Her hands are clenched into fists at her sides, knuckles white. The look of rage on her face is one that you never ever want to see directed at you.

Thunder booms overhead.

"I hate you for doing this to us," she yells, all thought of keeping her voice down forgotten.

And then she crumbles to the muddy ground. A sob is ripped from her throat. Tears rivulet down her face, mixed with rainwater and dirt. Her hair and ripped clothes cling to her skin. Her fingers scrabble at her body, marking it with raised red lines.

A rustle in the bushes alerts you to another presence eavesdropping in the night. Reyna steps out of the shadows, eyes cold and proud. A long ugly red scar cuts her eyebrow in two.

Clarisse lifts her head slowly, demigod instincts cutting through her sorrow. Her tear-stained eyes meet Reyna's slowly. Reyna advances on the injured girl. Clarisse stumbles to her feet, hand flying to her sword. She grits her teeth and growls, "What are you doing here, Roman?"

Reyna lifts her chin. "Do you have doubts of the gods' greatness, Grecian?" Clarisse looks away. "I have the right to question their motives at times." Reyna steps closer, into striking range. "Questioning the motives of the gods is disloyalty. It is our requirement to do the bidding of our immortal parents and remain loyal to the death."

Clarisse scoffs, but she's bluffing. You can see her hand tremble on the sword hilt.

"You are daughter of the war god," Reyna says coldly, her hand clenching on her knife hilt. "Surely you must be enjoying yourself."

Clarisse snarls. You can see her rage bubbling up again, just below the surface. "Not when my friends are dying," she says. "Not when my home is being destroyed. Not when we should be helping the others and here we are fighting this petty war!"

They stare at each other, at a stalemate. Clarisse's chest is heaving.

A figure stalks up the hill. A teddy bear hangs from his belt. His thinning straw hair is perfectly manicured. He approaches the two girls.

"Reyna," he says in a clipped voice.

Reyna whips around, eyes shards of obsidian sharp enough to slice flesh. "Octavian," she says. "This isn't your shift. Go back to bed."

Octavian drawls, "I thought I heard a disturbance. Apparently I was right." He eyes Clarisse like a piece of meat.

She turns up her nose at him. "This is none of your business," she hisses. "If it has something to do with my fellow Romans, then indeed it is my business," he says silkily.

She glowers at him.

He turns his attention to Reyna. "Congratulations for catching the head of the snake…so to speak," he says. "The legion will be proud-not that it was that hard. Grecians are notoriously stupid. Especially children of the war god."

Reyna stiffens. "Watch your mouth Octavian," she says. "And learn some respect. I am the praetor."

He nods. "Of course. I was merely stating facts."

You can see the moment that Clarisse snaps. Her shoulders tense, and her eyes narrow. Her balance steadies, and a strange look comes across her face, a shadow in the already dark night. She yanks her sword out of his sheath and aims it at Octavian's face. Her hand does not shake.

A look of fear crosses Octavian's features and he takes a step back, reaches for his puny knife. He's no match for Clarisse, who disarms him within three seconds of the fight.

He backs up, hands thrust into the air.

Reyna watches impassively. He starts babbling in panic when Clarisse doesn't let up, keeps her blade pointing at Octavian's chest.

Clarisse is too far gone. The look she sports you have only seen one other time, on Ares, when he was trying to beat you to a pulp, and you know that this cannot end well.

A sick feeling roils in the pit of your stomach and you take a few steps forward, nearly tripping over the couch. Your hands press against the silky fabric of the tapestry.

Octavian is on the ground, his bloodied elbows supporting his upper body and a look of sheer terror on his face.

Clarisse stands above him, snarling in the blood-hungry way that only a child of Ares who is too far gone can manage. The blank rage that swirls in her eyes sends shivers up your spine.

Reyna is standing a few feet back. She looks torn, but she stays where she is, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. Octavian is calling desperately for her. Clarisse's sword dangles above Octavian's chest.

You watch it fall in slow motion, watch the muscles ripple in Clarisse's back, catch the sparkle of the bronze in the silver moonlight, see Octavian's armor ripped apart by the force of the blow.

Reyna rushes Clarisse, knife out, face a mask of intense concentration. Clarisse must sense this, because she wrenches her sword out and meets Reyna's blow. Droplets of thick dark liquid spray into the grass.

The weapons are locked, blades trembling with force. Clarisse meets Reyna's eyes, blue to black, both dark with anger.

"Call off your army," Clarisse says. "Leave us in peace."

Reyna says, "And you expect me to surrender and leave after you just murdered Octavian right in front of me?!"

"Don't pretend that the only reason you're here was because of that snake," snarls Clarisse. "Leave. Or else."

She lets her weapon drop, and gestures roughly at Octavian. Then she turns and stalks away.

Silence grips the hill with an iron fist.

Reyna brushes a strand of loose hair out of her eyes, then turns to the body and begins to carry the dead weight back toward the bushes.

You stand there, speechless at the scene that has just unfolded in front of you. The Greeks and the Romans really are at war. Octavian was murdered. Clarisse issued a death threat to Reyna and the legion if they didn't surrender. Guilt and horror rise and bubble in your stomach. So many things have gone wrong with this quest, and right when you thought you'd hit the limit of how bad things could possibly go, it's been topped.

Camp Half-Blood could possibly be destroyed by the time you and your fellow ship members arrive in America. Your throat closes off, choking you in your own shock and sorrow.

You turn and leave the still, silent room, heading blindly towards the stairs that lead up and out of the belly of the ship, towards the fresh air and hopefully some clearer thoughts.

* * *

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	11. Heart to Heart

**CHAPTER 11**

**Heart to Heart**

You open the door to the deck and peek your head out, then step out. You're going through some clouds, and the light from the full moon casts eerie shadows on the curling tendrils of vapor.

There's a lone deck chair strewn across the wood floor, and you can only guess that fear kept them from being up here very often, if at all. It's the opposite with you. Weeks of being stuck under the Earth have you desperate for open spaces.

You cross to the upturned chair and right it absentmindedly, fingers tracing the twisted metal and charred cushion.

Festus snorts tiredly from the front of the ship, and even that small unexpected noise has you jumping back in terror. You get your breathing back under control and approach the safety guard rail and the hard storage seating that rings the bronze.

Your fingers trace the ballistae, which have undoubtedly been steaming fire recently, and you look over the side, into nothingness. For a split second, a very scary second, you wonder what it would be like to fall like that, into the sky, down, down, down.

Then you swallow that thought with a shudder. Annabeth needs you here, alive.

You slump to the ground and tuck your knees up to your chest, relishing in the soft night breeze that brushes through your tangled hair, yet another physical reminder of those terrible days and nights.

It's quiet up here, but not eerily quiet, dangerously quiet, like Tartarus was, when the only sounds were the occasional faint scream of pain and the nonstop _plinkplinkplink _of water dripping from the ceiling. It's peaceful quiet here, lonesome quiet, a quiet that lends itself to reflections and ideas.

Your mind strays to the scene in the living room, and your gut coils. Things are definitely bad, really bad, much worse than you originally thought. You hadn't really been thinking about Camp Half-Blood.

You'd been much more preoccupied with getting out of Tartarus, and your fellow quest member, and more recently Annabeth's memory and if she'll ever be able to love you again. You'd thought that if there was a war, Camp Half-Blood could handle itself. You'd thought that there would finally be peace.

You've surmised that Clarisse must have taken over the role of unofficial leader and general, which is both a good and a bad thing.

Clarisse is the kind of person you want on your side in battle. She's incredibly loyal, and fights to the death. It takes a long time for her to accept you, but when she does you have her for life.

She's also very headstrong and impulsive, and does things without thinking, hence Octavian. She's not the best diplomat, and prefers to fight it out, which is not the best thing for making peace.

You remember the burden of your friends lives on your shoulders all too well. It's not a place you ever want to be again.

You sigh and dig the heels of your hands into your eyes. Stars burst and pop in the darkness behind your eyelids.

You need to get back to camp fast. Even though Reyna didn't want the war, and didn't like Octavian, the fact that Clarisse killed him insults her Roman pride, and her natural instinct is to strike. She's also incited the legion, and they will attack with the rage of losing their second in command. If Camp Half-Blood is already doing poorly, then that could be disastrous.

You close your eyes and rest your cheekbone against your knees, breathing in a steady rhythm to combat the icy fear that encircles your heart.

A shadow falls over your hunched body and the boards of the ship squeak under demigod feet. You startle up, wide eyes peering at the mop of oily brown hair, Hispanic features, and small build. Leo.

You croak, "Hey."

He takes that as an invitation to sit down next to you and imitate your position. He stares at you with dark liquid eyes.

You stare back.

His face lights up into a crinkly-eyed smile, exposing sparkling teeth. He pats your shoulder gently. "Hey yourself. I haven't seen you in a long time."

The muscles in your face strain to attempt some semblance of a smile in return. "It's nice out here at night, isn't it?" he asks.

"Yeah," you say. "It's beautiful."

He tilts his head up and inhales deeply. "It smells good," he says.

"The air is fresh," you say.

This is the weirdest conversation you've had in a long time, but it's oddly refreshing.

"Yeah," he agrees. "None of the others like to come up here any more," he says. "After what happened, I mean. So I get to spend a lot of time by myself, driving the ship. Coach helps sometimes, but, you know Coach. He's more likely to see a pigeon and start screaming, 'DIE' than he is to actually help anything."

He turns to look you in the eyes, piercing you with a searching look. "What's going on in here?" he asks, tapping gently at your temple with a tanned fingertip. You fight the urge to recoil from his touch. You turn to look out at the swirls of fog.

The funny thing is, you have the urge to tell him everything. Leo doesn't judge, never has. And you find yourself lulled into a fake sort of fantasy where you can tell people besides Annabeth things and they won't betray you.

You settle for cold facts, and you tell him everything.

He's silent. "We have to get back fast, then," he says finally. "We have to make the peace. We're the only ones who can."

"Yeah, I guess," you say. You sigh. "I just-I don't know. We've been through so much, you know? I just wanted to be free of all things demigod for a bit, just to get my head screwed on the right way again."

He turns his head, stares out at the night, and doesn't answer you.

You swallow down the lump in your throat at how much he's changed. How much these last few weeks have changed him. The awkward, bouncing, seriously ADHD kid he used to be traded in for a raw, battle scarred man.

Something pokes itself to the forefront of your mind. Leo said, 'after what happened.' What happened?

You ask quietly.

Leo blows out a soft breath. His hand shakes as he goes to pat his tool belt, as if reassuring himself that it's still there.

He blinks fast, then says softly, "We were all so scared, you know. After you and Annabeth fell. We didn't know what to do. Nico was the one who brought us back together. I got the ship back together, and we took off for the Doors of Death."

He stops for a second, then continues. "In order to get to the Doors, you have to face your demons. I guess whoever built them really didn't want anyone getting to them."

He forces a dry laugh. "The stuff that was there was just so horrible. Every time I close my eyes I see them. It's a miracle we could all still fight at the end." His voice is shaking. "Nico didn't make it through."

You process this. "So, no one wants to be up here because…"

"Because it reminds them," says Leo. "Of stuff that they really really want to forget."

"But I don't understand," you say. "What about the open air makes you afraid of it?"

He shudders violently. "The whole thing was, you had to walk across about a mile of emptiness, just like the ground. We all thought that it was the easiest thing to do, until we started. Every step you took, all your nightmare came true, until they were all swirling round you, and whispering horrible things about you, confirming all your insecurities."

He takes a shuddery breath. "They _know _that there's nothing going to hurt them up here. It's just the memories."

You nod. "Now I understand."

"'S the same for you, innit? That's why you came up here. Because of the memories." He looks up at you, eyes full of hurt.

"Yeah, I guess," you say. "Except for me, they're backward to yours. Every time I'm in a closed space, I remember."

"Does it ever stop?" he asks. "Can you ever forget?"

"I think," you say carefully, "That it doesn't ever go away completely. It just fades a little over time, and you learn to live with it. Doesn't make it any less painful though." You sit there in silence for a while, watching the smoke drift in lazy circles. Your eyelids slowly grow heavier and heavier, until eventually you find a restless sleep.

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	12. Home

**CHAPTER 11**

**Home**

It's been a week since you watched Octavian die. The images still give you chills. The others know about it as well, now, and Leo has set the Argo ll on course for Camp Half-Blood as fast as it will go. The only one who doesn't know about it is Annabeth, who has been hibernating in her room.

You can't stand to be inside at any time, the feeling of something over the top of you, trapping you, almost more than you can handle, but you make an attempt to visit Annabeth two or three times a day.

Every time you open the door to her room, she's sitting in either on the chair or the bed, staring at the wall with a vacant expression on her face. It scares you how distant she seems, even to you. She always make an attempt to snap out of it, but you can feel the fog that shrouds her.

You look out from where you're sitting on the deck and steel yourself for making a trip down into the depths of the ship.

You slip down the stairs and open the door to Annabeth's room. It's dark, and hot, and she hasn't opened the window, so it smells of old air. The sharp click of the lock jerks her out of whatever she's thinking about, and she looks up at you, blinking to clear the mist out of her eyes. Her long blonde hair is lank around her thin face.

"Hey," you say quietly.

She nods, acknowledging your presence. "Hey," she says, pointing at the bed for you to sit down on.

You shake your head, and she looks at you, slightly startled.

"Come with me," you say.

"Why?" she asks.

"I want to take you on a tour of the ship."

"Is that necessary?"

"Yes."

But I'm comfortable here."

"I know you are."

"Then why do I have to move?"

"Because I want to show you something."

She looks down at herself. "I'm not ready."

"I'll wait."

She sighs in defeat and swings herself off the bed. "Wait outside; I'll be out in a minute."

You turn and leave, inwardly congratulating yourself on winning an argument, even though you know she let you win.

It takes a while, but finally she emerges. She's traded pajamas for a pair of ratty jeans and a t-shirt, her empty knife sheath hanging from her belt. The rest of her appears untouched. She brushes a strand of hair out of her face.

"Okay. Where to, Jackson?"

You reach for her hand, before remembering that it's not like that between you anymore. It's just-she's acting so much more like the Annabeth you knew, sarcastic and witty, with a rock hard exterior that only just started coming down for you. You withdraw your hand and start down the hall, Annabeth keeping step with you. You lead her into the living room. It's empty, as you expected. The tapestries of Camp Half-Blood glimmer on the walls. They would be beautiful if not for the scenes of carnage and destruction that mar the camp. Annabeth takes a few quick steps towards the images. She traces her fingers over the fabric and turns back to you. Her eyes are wide, scared.

"Is this…" she trails off.

You nod.

Her jaw tightens, and you wilt under her iron gaze.

"Who did this?" she asks quietly.

And you have to tell her, because if you ever want her to trust you again, you have to give her a reason to.

"Camp Jupiter," you say heavily. "But they're not all bad! Most of them are really nice people. It's just-this one guy, Octavian, who riled them all up."

"And what is Camp Jupiter?"

"It's a camp for Roman demigods," you say.

This is obviously a new development for her, by the way her eyebrows skyrocket to her hairline. "There are no Roman demigods," she says in a _I'm right you're wrong _voice.

"Yes there are," you say. "We just found out about them."

She's off balance, you can tell. She has a right to be. She shakes her head. "What if I don't believe you?"

You shrug. "You have a right to. But I'm telling the truth."

You don't mention that she met them, or that she was at the camp, or that there were three natives on the ship. You have a nasty feeling that if she knew, blood would be spilled.

She turns back to the tapestries and runs her fingers over the battle. Her hands are shaking.

You decide it's time to change the subject. "Come on, let's keep moving."

It takes her a moment, but she finally rips herself away from the images to follow you. You lead her through the dining room, and open the sliding glass door that opens onto the deck of the ship.

You step out and bask in the fresh breeze and bright sunlight spilling over the wood. Leo is, as usual, standing at the helm, having a conversation with Festus.

Annabeth stumbles forward, blinking furiously in the blazing light. You call to Leo, and he looks back over his shoulder, elfish smile lighting up his entire face, curls askew and blowing across his tan face.

"Hey!" he calls, beckoning wildly.

You grin in return, turning back for Annabeth.

"C'mon," you say.

She's stock still, staring at the son of Hephaestus. You watch her in confusion for a minute before realization dawns.

"Oh! That's Leo, son of Hephaestus. He built the ship, and he's driving us back to Camp Half-Blood so we can stop the war." You lean closer, until you're whispering in her ear. "He's a bit…ADHD, like, seriously, even by demigod standards."

Her face splits into a smile and she nods. She follows you over.

You clasp Leo's hand, small and calloused. He nods at Annabeth, grinning. "Hey, Annabeth!"

"Hey," she says, putting on her brash, intimidating face that she gets when she's feeling uncomfortable. Her hands settle at her hips.

Leo is unaffected. "I gotta show you something," he says, hurrying over to the side of the ship and pointing over the railing.

You follow him over. "What is it?"

A bronze finger points down, through a part in the golden-burnished clouds, to the landscape of a familiar city. A very familiar city. "New York!" you exclaim. He nods proudly. "We're almost home, seriously. A half-hour should do it." A thousand emotions are clashing, like Titans fighting. But the fact is inescapable. Soon, very soon, whether you like it or not, you're going to be touching down at a war zone.

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	13. Arrival

**I do not own PJO.**

**Chapter 13**

**Arrival**

* * *

A thousand different emotions clash painfully together inside your head as the Argo ll drifts slowly down through the clouds and you can make out Camp Half-Blood.

Leo's driving the ship, hands clutching the Wii controller to contain his nervousness.

The rest of the ship's inhabitants are standing on the deck, watching the camp come closer and closer solemnly. Piper has her head tucked into the crook of Jason's neck, face turned away, eyes blinking out at the tendrils of cloud that surround you. Hazel and Frank are holding hands, knuckles white.

Annabeth is standing about a foot away from you, arms crossed over her chest. Only the look in her eyes gives her nervousness away, and even then you think you're the only one who can see it.

You want to hold her close, twist your hand gently into the golden curls, and whisper reassurances in her ear, but you restrain yourself. She's not at that point now. She might never be at that point again. The thought sends ice through your veins, but you do your best to shake it away. Now is not the time to be thinking about that sort of thing.

You're walking willingly into a war zone.

Riptide is a solid heavy weight in your pocket. You're praying to the gods you won't be forced to use it.

The ship descends enough for you to make out the cabins, and then the people, going about their hurried, war-fevered activities.

You can also see the royal purple tents that surround the camp, a far enough circle to allow the Greeks some space, but judging from the perfect lines, you can guess that space was hard won.

The ship sets down with a resounding thud, sending dust and clods of dirt flying into the air.

A few campers stop their jobs and come over to congratulate you on a job well done, but most have to continue their work. You're grateful for it.

Leo starts to let the gangplank down, which makes a horrible screech on it's descent. You wince with the noise. He shuts off the engine, which dies with a small groan, and walks down the sturdy collection of bronze and wood to the ground. He shivers visibly when his feet touch the grass.

Jason disentangles himself from Piper, gently twines his fingers with hers, and leads her off the ship. She goes without complaint, but you can see her knuckles white on his mutilated hand and her eyes wide with irrational fear.

Frank and Hazel have more reason to be afraid. You're afraid for them. They've never been here before, and with the whole Greco-Roman war going on right now, you're not sure how they'll be received.

You go to them, struck by impulse to reassure them, to make sure they're safe.

Frank turns to you, his eyes wide. "Percy," he mutters. "I'm not so sure this is a good idea."

You look at him. "You're going to be okay. Roles are reversed, right? I'll get you in safe."

Hazel smiles gratefully at you, but her eyes still betray her. Annabeth goes next, shoulders back, chin up, wide eyes watching everything around her, the home that has so suddenly grown up. She's putting up a pretty good front, though, considering. Everyone at camp will still know something's up, seeing as you and her used to be inseparable and now she's treating you like a complete stranger. Cordially, but without any of the warmth she's capable of.

You blink away the sudden, hot tears that blossom behind your eyelids and follow Hazel and Frank as they walk tentatively down the gangplank and onto (for them) enemy ground. They look around them at the bright sunlight splashing onto the many cabin, the yelling and loud voices, swords sharpening, injured campers being rushed here and there on makeshift stretchers.

A battle must have just ended.

You join the small group of broken demigods standing in the shadow of the massive ship. Festus snorts steam into the air.

No one is suggesting anything, so you say, "I think we should find Chiron." Annabeth nods in agreement. "Let's go," she says, and starts off for the Big House.

You have no choice but to follow her, weaving through the hurried people. Every person that you walk by stops, does some variation of a pat on the back, congratulates you on surviving and defeating Gaia, states how much you've been missed, and informed that Annabeth was a wreck while you were gone and how nice it is that you're finally back. Then they disappear again, without a goodbye. The affirmation make bile rise in your throat. They don't know how much was sacrificed so that you could be alive, they don't know how much you've collectively suffered, they don't know that Annabeth doesn't know, that she's been wiped clean of all her memories.

All of these people are just expecting that you're Percy Jackson, the invincible son of Poseidon, and that you'll just pick up the reins again and carry on. But what if you don't want the reins anymore? What if the gods and the quests and the burdens and the pain and the suffering have worn you down and used you until there's nothing left of the person that you used to be, and you can't be that person anymore? What if the little boy that was so amazed and awed at being _special, _has been worn down and beaten and abused until his strength has ebbed away, until all that's left is a broken shell of a boy that has just lost the sun he revolves around?

You reach the stairs, climb them, and look around at your fellow quest-members. You lock eyes with Annabeth's grey ones, seeking her approval, then raise your hand to the door and tap the brass knocker against the wood.

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	14. Chiron

**I do not own PJO.**

**Chapter 13**

**Chiron**

* * *

It takes a minute, but the door swings open with a mighty creak of rusty hinges. Chiron is standing there, his features haggard, beard untrimmed. Dirt is embedded in his wide, short fingernails that grasp his gnarly walking stick with an iron grip. His face lights up when he sees you and the rest of the Seven.

Frank and Hazel look taken aback by the centaur in the doorway, most likely because they've never seen one that wasn't crazy or a monster.

"You made it!" he exclaims. "I had complete faith in you, but it's still nice to see you back safely. Come in."

He gestures for you to follow him, then turns and clops to the living room. You look around at the home you've returned to. There are so many memories here, in this house and in the entire camp. They're all painful, now. Annabeth is in every single one.

You reach the sitting room. Blood stains the floral couch that you sit on. Annabeth makes a point to sit as far away from you as possible.

Frank and Hazel watch with wide eyes as Chiron backs himself into his wheelchair and rolls to the other side of the scratched coffee table.

You can hear the noises from the hospital across the way.

He stares at you all with thousand year old eyes. You always feel like you're being x-rayed, but this time the feeling is much more intense. You shiver.

Finally, he sighs and leans back in his chair. "It is as I feared," he says sadly. "What?" you say.

He turns to you. "I think you know what I mean, Percy." He says.

You do. He's assessed you all already, and he knows of the great burdens that you all carry, the crushing weight that comes with surviving. He knows that some of you were better off dead.

"Did any of you go into Tartarus?" he asks.

Red mist, slick black stone, unbearable heat, and pain flicker through your brain. You swallow reflexively against the bile that rises in your throat, and nod. Chiron nods. His face is grave. "I won't ask any more questions right now," he says gently. "You should know that things are pretty bad here. The Romans are pressing in. Most of our fighting force is already injured, save for Clarisse and a few others. Our future is looking quite grim, unless you might be able to make peace. I have a feeling that you might be the only people who will be able to do so." He turns to Frank and Hazel, sitting side by side. "I believe that as long as you are a good person and do the right thing, it doesn't matter whether you are a Greek or a Roman."

They look slightly relieved, but he goes on. "Most of the Greeks do not feel the same way. If they find out…" he trails off.

You hear the unspoken, 'things might go very, very, bad,' and you know that they do too.

He glances curiously at Annabeth, then back at you, and says, "Are any of you injured?" You want to tell him that yes, you all are injured, in places that the eye cannot see, but you swallow your words and watch as Jason extends his hand and Piper raises bloodshot eyes to Chiron's deep blue.

Chiron nods. "I would let you all rest, you certainly deserve it; but unfortunately you're needed on the battlefield."

It's so very typical of him; his job, really, to push the limits farther than you ever thought they could go. No one wants to go, but good old Jason shoulders his duties and stands, one arm supporting Piper, the other reaching for his gladius. You used to be that way, shouldering your burden and everyone else's along the way. You're just so tired. You force yourself to your feet.

Your joints creak painfully and you wince. You can feel Chiron's iron gaze on you, but you keep your eyes down.

Jason waits for Chiron's instruction, Piper hanging on his arm like a dead weight. It can't be comfortable, but he grits his teeth and stands his ground, a true soldier.

Chiron clears his throat and says, "Could I have a word with Percy?"

'Alone' goes unsaid, but they get the hint and file out. The door closes with a sharp click.

Chiron looks at you but says nothing. You can feel yourself getting more and more uncomfortable by the second that goes by.

"Is there anything you need to talk about?" he asks finally.

You shake your head. "No."

Chiron sighs. "All right Percy. I won't pry. If you need to talk, I'm here for you."

You're building a dam in your chest to keep the words from pouring out, staining the room with your sorrow.

You nod wordlessly. He escorts you to the door, and it's the gentle hand on your shoulder as he clops beside you that has sends the tumbling from your mouth. "I just-" you start to say. Chiron stops walking and turns to face you. His eyes are full of such concern you have to tell him. Annabeth is his student too. "Me and Annabeth got stuck in Tartarus." The admission sends chills down your spine. It's the first time you've said that out loud, to yourself or anyone.

To his credit, Chiron doesn't look surprised.

"She had it worse than me, and we were fighting some the Guardians of the Doors of Death. They ripped her away from me and she went flying and hit her head."

You swallow hard before continuing. "Then, on the ship, I went to go see her and-"

You trip over your own words. "She doesn't remember, Chiron, she doesn't remember anything. She thinks she's twelve again."

Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes and you furiously blink them away. Chiron's grip tightens on your shoulder. You don't go on. You don't need to.

A weathered hand tilts your chin up to meet Chiron's eyes. Shock and pain and sadness are written all over his face.

He clears his throat. "I'm sorry, Percy."

You blink hard and look away, silently cursing yourself for your weakness. Your fatal flaw.

"This is a blow for the whole camp," he says, "but especially for you."

A thick wad of repressed tears is expanding in your throat. You couldn't talk even if you wanted to.

"If I could put my money on anyone to bring her back to us," he goes on gently, "I'd put it on you."

Then he opens the door for you and follows you out of it. Everyone's waiting for you, but you just shake your head and continue on down the hallway, a headstrong bull charging down the battlefield to meet it's fate.


	15. Daughter of Bellona

**I do not own PJO.**

**Chapter 15**

**Daughter of Bellona**

* * *

Clarisse is emerging from the weaponry shed when Chiron leads you out of the Big House. She looks haggard and pale. A thick piece of gauze is taped to her cheekbone, which is slowly turning dark with blood.

She doesn't see you pass, instead focusing on the new spear she's testing, running her thumb along the razor-sharp blade. Her skin splits upon contact and she nods, satisfied. She flicks the blood to the ground and tosses the spear over her shoulder.

Chiron leads you through the strawberry fields, branches heavy with the fragrant red fruit.

The scent used to be comforting to you, but now you turn away from it. It brings back painful memories of an easier time, before the scars and the pain and the burdens.

If Chiron notices your anxiety, he says nothing, for which you are grateful. Annabeth does, though, just like she always did, and she sends you a curious glance.

You bring the corners of your mouth up and attempt a smile. The muscles in your face are sore and unused.

You reach the battlefield at last.

Your body is protesting horribly from the long walk. You're not fully healed yet. Far from it. You stand up straight and try not to wince.

Piper is hanging on to Jason's hand for dear life, her eyes wide and frightened.

The Roman camp is a village of sturdy purple tents with people buzzing around them. The injured are being carried into a giant purple circus tent on makeshift stretchers made of cloth and sticks, not much different from the Greeks.

The battlefield reeks of blood, the thick scent clogging your nose. You can see dark liquid staining the matted grass and dirt. The dead have been picked up already and carried away for their friends to pay their final respects.

Heads turn at the sight of you all and Chiron standing on neutral turf. A Roman scout is dispatched to find out why you're there.

He approaches cautiously, a hand trembling on his sword hilt. He can't be more than eleven. "Our praetor demands to know what you are doing here?" He says. He's trying to be brave, but he turns the end of his sentence into a question. Chiron says, "Under a white flag of truce," which he produces astonishingly from a saddlebag, "we wish to speak with your esteemed praetor."

The boy nods and scurries off. You're startled by the age of the young boy. While you were at Camp Jupiter, kids started at the age of thirteen. Jason, Hazel, and Frank are too, by the startled look they're giving the boy's back.

Even in Camp Half-Blood, kids trained, but they didn't get to go on quests until they were much older.

He runs back. "Our praetor will be coming in just a minute," he pants, then retreats to the first tent and stands there uncomfortably, chewing his fingernails. True to her word, Reyna emerges from the royal looking tent, flanked by two muscular guards. She strides up to your group, black hair tied back in a ponytail, chin held high, obsidian eyes scanning her surroundings constantly.

The high and haughty look she's wearing is a fake, though. You recognize it from the days your spent with her and Camp Jupiter, when she had the entire responsibility to run the camp. Now she has the entire responsibility of the war effort.

"Greeks," she acknowledges. "How may I help you today?"

Her guards sneer and flex their muscles threateningly.

"I wondered if we might have a word with you," you say.

You glance at the guards. Normally, the Seven of you'd take them down easily, but in the condition you're all in, you doubt it.

"Alone." She considers this request, then nods. "Fine."

Her guards retreat a few feet, and she takes a couple more steps forward. "This is as good as you're going to get," she says. Then she lowers her voice. "Did you win?"

Hazel nods. "We closed the Doors and Death and sent Gaia to sleep again." She scans you. "Who died?"

Hazel swallows hard and blinks fast a few times. "Nico died getting us to the Doors."

Reyna looks mildly sad for a few seconds. "Hmm," she says.

Then she turns to Frank, Hazel, and Jason. "This is your chance to rejoin the Romans," she says. "I'm only offering it once." She looks at Piper with distaste. "You'll have to leave your girlfriend here, Jason."

You all look at each other.

"We were hoping," you say cautiously. "That you'd be willing to make a truce and establish peace between the camps."

Reyna's mood changes in an instant. "I had Octavian," she says lowly. "And he was bad. He stirred it up and got everyone furious and chomping at the bit for war. I had no choice. Then, we were fighting, and I was making some headway. They were pulling off a little. Then the stupid Daughter of Ares kills him, and I'm right back where we started. Do you think I want this war?"

She turns to Frank, Hazel, and Jason. "Come back with me," she says. "That's the only way this will work."

Frank and Hazel look across the circle at you, indecision in their eyes. You don't want them to go anymore than they want to go, but you can see Reyna's point. If they go back, it might quench some of the thirst for Greek blood.

Finally, they nod.

Jason says, "I can't leave Piper. I'm sorry Reyna."

Reyna brushes her hair off of her shoulder. "Fine, son of Jupiter. Stay." She turns to Frank and Hazel. "Come on, back to camp with me."

She rejoins her guards and sets off back to the Roman camp, Frank and Hazel trailing behind them.

You watch them go. You hope they'll be able to change the Romans' minds. Chiron had backed off during the conversation, but now he comes forward. "That's the most we can hope for, right now," he says. "Pray to the gods that Frank and Hazel are able to get through to them."

You nod. As you set off back to camp, your mind is much heavier than it was before, full of worry for your two friends that have a lot of work ahead of them.

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	16. Falling

**I do not own PJO.**

**Chapter 16**

**Falling **

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The absence of Frank and Hazel hits you like a knife in the gut. As you walk back through the strawberry fields and the thick sweet-smelling air, your mind is abuzz with how you could have possibly kept them with you.

Rationally you know that they're not in any particular danger by being with the Romans; they are Romans themselves. Bt it just doesn't feel quite right without them by your side.

Chiron leads the way, finding the paths between the dense plants. After so many years training half-bloods, he instinctively tries to help injured demigods, which you all qualify as.

Jason looks crushed, one arm wrapped around Piper as she stumbles, his face bowed to the ground. He knows that that was his last chance with Reyna. You wonder if he regrets his decision.

You stumble over a rock. Normally you'd have the strength and balance to keep upright. Normally, it wouldn't faze you. This isn't normally.

You end up on your hands and knees, pain blooming in both of your knees and sparking out to the rest of your body. Your vision goes foggy around the corners.

You hang your head between your arms and squeeze your eyes shut around the dizziness.

Somewhere in the back of your head you can feel a hand on your bony shoulder. You focus on the touch, calling it back, reeling it into the forefront of your mind.

You force your body to function, seize the tendrils of your battered consciousness before they can slip away.

You open your eyes and look up, directly into the grey eyes of a certain blonde girl. A look of concern is drawn on her face, but you can see a tiny pull of remembering in her eyes.

"Are you okay?" She asks softly, just for you to hear.

You nod, grit your teeth and rock back onto your heels. She extends a small callused hand, which you accept, and she attempts to pull you to your feet. It doesn't really work, because she's small and underfed, but you appreciate the gesture all the same. It's something she would have done before.

Your body feels like it's been through the grinder.

Chiron rests his hand on your shoulder. You force yourself to look into his eyes, full of concern and something else, a great sadness. You stare back at them with the look you're best at, fiery defiance.

He sighs and removes his hand, turning to lead the way. You follow him, swallowing down the pounding ache in your bones and the flame that flickers to life on the candle of hope in the dark.

Maybe, just maybe, this could all work out in the end. Maybe the feverish prayers to the gods and the desperate attempts to get her to remember you haven't all been for naught. Then you remember that it was a fleeting second and while maybe it was a small breakthrough, it isn't enough to get all your hopes up for.

You watch her uneven golden curls bob from their ponytail as she follows Chiron, stumbling over the rough ground.

After what seems like miles of strawberry fields, you make it back to the Big House. Your feet ache sharply, and your body throbs along with your heartbeat. You can't imagine what you look like. Probably a right sight, given the way Leo plucks a dead leaf out of your bangs.

The knees of your pants are scraped and dirty.

You look at the palms of your hands, inspecting them for damage. Dirt is encrusted into the crevices of your skin, and embedded in your nails. That's nothing new. A thin red line cuts its way across your skin.

You can feel your mind recoil from the thought of blood, which doesn't make much sense, given that you've seen blood. Lots of blood. More blood than most people see in their lives. Wars will do that to people.

You shake the disturbance from your mind and wipe your palms on the legs of your pants.

Chiron leads what remains of the Seven back up the steps and into the Big House. When you arrive in the sitting room, you all gratefully collapse on the couch.

A thin sheen of sweat drips down Jason's face, and Piper is crumpled next to him. Leo's boundless energy is curbed, and he sits next to you quite docilely. Annabeth is trying valiantly to appear unaffected, but her chest is heaving. You rest your head on the back of the couch and close your eyes.

Orange spots burst behind your closed lids.

Chiron is silent for a minute, then says, "You should all be seen by a medic. I'll arrange for it in the morning. In the meantime, you should all go back to your cabins. Try to get some rest. And remember, you're safe here now."

You take a moment to shake the dizziness away, then heave yourself to your feet. Chiron pats each of you on the back as you exit the room and make your way down the hall. You can feel his sad gaze trained on you as you walk away.

You all linger outside the Big House for a moment, getting used to being separated. For you it's more about being away from Annabeth, and reacquainting yourself to Camp. The last time you were here you were a very different person than you are now.

You shake your head to clear your thoughts, and turn to Annabeth. She's looking at you funny, her head cocked slightly to the side.

"What?" you ask.

She shakes her head. "Nothing. Um, I should go." She gestures vaguely at Jason, Piper, and Leo, who have said their goodnights and are leaving.

"Right," you say. "So I'll see you tomorrow?"

She shrugs. "Bye," she says, and wanders off in the general direction of the Athena cabin.

You raise your hand in a wave, watching her disappear into the cabin, then turn and stumble into your cabin.

The scent of salt and ocean waves never fails to calm you down. Your room is spotless. There is not a thing out of place, or so it seems.

As you walk to the bunk beds along the wall, you see the blue quilt is pulled back neatly. Your thick grey sweatshirt is crumpled up and dripping slowly to the floor. The framed picture of you and Annabeth on your first date rests on the crisp white pillow.

You both look so happy together in the confines of the brass frame. But it's more the thought of _why _it's there that has your eyes filling with tears.

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